


World Turned Upside Down

by barefootinthesunshine, tmunz



Category: American Revolution RPF, Turn (TV 2014)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate History, Alternate Universe - American Revolution, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Historical, Comfort/Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship/Love, Gen, Grief/Mourning, patching wounds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-04
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-17 22:22:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29848383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/barefootinthesunshine/pseuds/barefootinthesunshine, https://archiveofourown.org/users/tmunz/pseuds/tmunz
Summary: The Americans have lost the Battle of Yorktown. Determined not to let their sacrifices go to waste, Ben and Caleb make a desperate attempt to swing the victory back into Rebel hands.
Relationships: Caleb Brewster & Benjamin Tallmadge
Kudos: 12





	World Turned Upside Down

**Author's Note:**

> I'd like to preface this by saying that without a doubt, I must be a masochist, because writing this hurt every step of the way (and of course, I loved every second of it). A big thank you to my fab, talented writing partner for allowing me to splice this pain together so that the whole fandom can share in our agony. More info on that can be found at the end.
> 
> For those who like mood music, I listened to this Hans Zimmer OST (over and over) while writing, if it helps set the scene for you as much as it did for me: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wwPCKWU0II8&list=PLA0EB49C4E7626AC9&ab_channel=BmSt32

The British army’s battle was won on the backs of their sailors. Their ships had broken through the blockade to come to Cornwallis’ aid, and along with those soldiers came supplies and cannons. Refreshed, relieved, the British had fought back, sending waves of musket fire into the Americans and pounding at them with their 18 and 24-pounders. The advantage of numbers dwindled until it was firmly in the redcoats’ favor.

All seemed quiet now, bleak, _suffocating_ within the smog of old artillery fire. With a sharp twinge in his chest, Ben remained hunkered down in wait, gazing between the British and American fortifications while he prayed under his breath. This couldn’t be the end. They had fought too hard for this – _lost too much_ for it all to be over. Despite their devastating defeat at Saratoga, there had still somehow been hope. There had _always_ been hope, but as a white flag of surrender lifted from the American side, Ben swore softly and sank down to his hands and knees. _Yorktown was lost._

It didn’t feel real. It _wasn’t_ real. He refused to accept that his friends, family, and loved ones – _Samuel_ – had died for nothing.

As cries of victory arose from the British parapet, Ben slowly felt his throat closing up around the scream that yearned to escape. Panic gripped him in a stronghold and he struggled to breathe, his breath stabbing fiercely in his lungs as he felt Caleb clamber up alongside him. “Stay down,” he managed to grit out.

“I’m fully aware of the danger,” the whaler volleyed back.

Ben heard his friend’s words, but somehow couldn’t fully register them.

_Danger?_

A soft, strangled laugh caught in Ben’s throat and he lifted his head again, bemused. _“Do_ you?” he hissed. “Caleb, this is it – we’re finished. Washington is _finished.”_ His eyes stung and his chin quivered with emotion, yet he refused to cry. “After his surrender, they will have him hanged for treason. You _know_ this. And you must also realize that they will have me, and _you,_ and anyone else they can link to the ring _hanged_ for their efforts.” He exhaled then, long and shaking. “That is why you must deny any and all accusations, should you be questioned. It is inevitable that I will swing from the noose, but you? _You_ still have a chance. Don’t let that be taken away.”

Even as Ben said the words, a low, acidic feeling churned within his stomach. Simcoe had had it out for the both of them since the beginning, so despite his talk of hope, there was truly none. The thought of his own life ending was somehow tolerable – _expected._ But as he contemplated the fate of his dearest life-long friends, he had to fight off the bile that nipped at his tongue.

Despite things having gone south, Caleb refused to acknowledge the panic that surged around them. The Cause may be lost for now, but it was going to need people like Ben if it was to rise again and succeed, and Caleb was damned if he was going to watch his friend walk the steps to the gallows. With a task to complete, he turned his focus to the man next to him. Beneath the dirty beard was a face full of determination and the strength to see them both through.

“We’re not finished, Tallboy,” he said. “You and I are gettin’ out o’ here before we’re missed. With the arrival of the fleet, I bet there’s a boat we can take.”

Even with the sobering effect of what would soon befall them, Ben still felt as though he were in a fog as he crouched there, gaping without truly seeing at the mass devastation. It wasn’t until Caleb’s hand came to his shoulder that he jerked, returning to the present.

 _Not finished?_ Hadn’t he, too, once been full of hope and high spirits and vigor for the Cause? How had that plummeted in only a matter of days?

Swallowing past the dryness of his throat, Ben moved to argue, but was suddenly overcome by another wave of fear. 

“What about the others?” he demanded. “Abe, and Anna and Mary and Thomas…we can’t just leave them all behind.” Ben’s kneejerk reaction was to include Washington in that list as well, but the tragic reality was that he was too relevant to be smuggled free – too in _demand_ to not be missed. “They deserve to live, Caleb. The latter three may yet leave with their lives, but Abe…” 

He trailed off. Yet again, a shuddering wave gripped him by the throat, almost akin to the noose he could so vividly envision. 

“Giving up is what the army is doin’,” Caleb reminded him. "We are going to go save our friends, and do what we can to keep the Cause goin’. For the sake of Washington and everything he’s done, we owe it to ‘im to retreat, recoup, and keep fighting.”

What fate awaited the other men? There were too many involved to execute them all. The British would be wildly unpopular if they were to hang the thousands present. Would they get off with a fine, an oath, an enlistment, or a prison sentence? There was a chance that the punishment would be light. But, not for His Excellency. Not for Ben. And not for those in Setauket.

A bag of balls, a powder horn, a brace of pistols and a hatchet hung off a weathered leather belt around Caleb’s frame. His attire gave no indication of military, but Ben, however…

Caleb shrugged off his oilskin coat and held it out. “If we’re gonna do this, you’ll need a disguise.”

Ben clumsily took hold of the garment. He’d accepted more out of shock than agreement, and with a frown, he squared his chin before shaking his head. He couldn’t accept that his life was more important than the others’ – couldn’t _accept_ that of all the people on this battlefield, it was _him_ who would be going free.

“How can I leave?” Ben weakly asked. “Caleb, I have never _once_ abandoned Washington, nor our men. This feels _wrong._ I can’t leave them to die.”

 _Damn his honor!_ It made Ben the best man Caleb knew, but also the most stubborn. The temptation was there to leave him with his obstinacy, but Caleb couldn’t do it. The signs of shock were clear on Ben’s face. He wasn’t thinking straight. For a moment, the sailor thought of knocking Tallmadge unconscious and carrying him to a boat. Caleb gritted his teeth, his heart and mind marking the minutes that passed. The window of opportunity was closing. If after all of his reasoning and convincing Ben still refused, well, Caleb knew he could carry him a long way.

“We’re not leavin’ ‘em behind,” he snapped. “We’ll get to them, too. And we can’t do that if we’re prisoners or dead, aye? For the sake of our friends, we need to leave.”

Swallowing, Ben removed his helmet and shakily lifted the oilskin coat in acquiescence, threading his arms through the garment as he and Caleb locked eyes. “Giving up is not what I came here to do – I came here to fight,” he coolly said. “Even if I die, my conscience will at least be clear of this one thing.”

Caleb shook his head. “We all knew what awaited us if we lost, Ben. Every man here knew and still enlisted, still marched. Our friends are only involved ‘cause _we_ got them into this.”

With a shallow breath, Ben finally managed a nod. Growing up, Caleb had often been the light-hearted devil on his shoulder, encouraging him to get into mischief and stir up trouble, and yet right here, _right now,_ he was a grounding voice of reason and he clung to his friend’s words, mentally latching on as if he would drown, were he to let go.

_Thank God for you._

The guilt still festered within his chest like a sore, gaping wound, but Ben looked to Caleb and recognized the stalwart determination he’d grown to rely on.

“I hate it when you’re right,” he said, though he finally allowed the glimmer of a smile. “I’ll follow your lead and cover you.”

“It’s a nice feelin’. I’ll try not to get to used to it,” Brewster quipped. His trademark grin broke through – a manifestation of relief that Ben finally capitulated. Just a moment of normalcy as if everything was fine before they took the steps that would carry them from the battlefield, and to where the hunters awaited those who ran. “Come on.” 

Deciding that a musket was too blatant a weapon, Ben settled on two loaded flintlocks and his saber, all of which he hid beneath the oilskin coat. Still keeping low, he followed after Caleb while deciding, “Most will be distracted with Washington for now. First and foremost, they’re going to want to make sure they’ve bagged…th-that that’ve got…” Not allowing himself to finish the words, he instead gritted his teeth and kept a hand over the flintlock at his right hip. “I assume you’ve already got a boat in mind?”

“I’ve given it some thought,” Caleb wryly agreed.

They were not the only ones who were leaving. Some were running, others limping or carrying a wounded comrade, but no one else was going towards the river. Caleb, having scouted this area before the siege, already had a route in mind. There was a track, a little steep, that led to Wormley Creek. From there, they could go north until they found a boat. The wind and sea were in his blood. As long as it floated, Caleb could captain it. 

He was hoping to find a sailing dinghy. That would be the fastest and easiest with two people. With the action at the top, the guard on the boats should be light. Between Ben’s saber and his hatchet, guards shouldn’t be an issue.

Caleb was focused on everything and everyone around him. His hands remained near his belt of weapons. Sensing Ben was right behind him, he led them to the right of the American position and down the path. “Careful, Tallboy. It’s steep and will be slippery.”

With his pulse roaring in his ears, Ben attempted to steady his limbs as he and Caleb rushed across the terrain. Everything suddenly seemed soft, _muted,_ and he could hear very little over the rush of his pounding heart. In the past, Ben had always been good about managing his distress – typically with nightcaps (when libations were available), his Bible, and even some pushups before bed – but out here stranded in the open, none of his usual cure-alls were readily available. _Now wasn’t the time to fall apart._

“I…” Swallowing past his nausea, Ben managed a taut, “I can see that.” It was a useless add-on to their conversation, but he felt the need to show he was present and accounted for – that he wasn’t just some useless deadweight weighing them down, much like an injured limb.

Adhering to Caleb’s warning, Ben lightened his steps in an attempt at avoiding slick spots. Helpless, his mind went back to the battlefield. _That_ had been slick too, but with bits of human tissue… _blood._ Fighting off a grimace, he leaned forward once the incline grew steeper, taking his steps more slowly as various chaos continued to unfold in the background. Up ahead, he heard shots and fumbled for his flintlock, unable to tell whether the men were friend or foe. They were obscured by trees along the path. He knew it would be more beneficial to use his saber, seeing how the noise could attract other unwanted parties, but at their present distance, they might not have much choice.

Leery, Ben grabbed a hold of Caleb’s arm and halted, weighing their options. “Can you tell how many there are?” he asked, his voice a low rasp. “There’s still enough chaos that musket-shot shouldn’t draw much attention…I can reload quickly, and have two firearms at the ready.”

Or rather, he could reload quickly in _normal_ case scenarios. He didn’t know why he still felt so frozen, so damnably _useless_ and unable to properly strategize.

Behind a bush on the river’s edge Caleb paused, his ears straining to hear more. It was hard to distinguish the sounds ahead from the sounds above and behind. A cacophony of chaos settled all around them.

“No,” he said. “I need to get closer to the mouth of the stream. See what’s waiting for us.” He gave a cursory glance around before turning his attention to Ben. “Stay here. I’m goin’ to scout ahead. I won’t be long.”

All at once, Ben felt a sting of panic. _Stay here?_

“Caleb, wait,” he pleaded. “Though we presently have the element of surprise, you know _full well_ that this isn’t tactically sound! We need to stay together.”

Whether it was reasonable or not, Caleb ignored him and pursued the enemy, his feet light and swift as he moved.

“Caleb!” Ben hissed, frustrated. “Wait a moment!”

Naturally, the whaler did _not_ wait, and with a curse, Ben unholstered his flintlock and appraised the surrounding woodland, ensuring that there wasn’t a soldier lingering nearby in preparation for attack. 

Despite his large frame, Caleb could be silent when needed. There was no one at the mouth of the stream. But north (as predicted) were the launches the British reinforcements had arrived in. Caleb crouched and watched the behavior of those guarding the boats. There were fewer than expected. Most of the men wanted to be present at the victory of the British over the Americans, so those left behind had drawn the short stick. 

His brown eyes appraised the vessels that pulled in to shore. Most were far too large for their purpose. The relatively unknown feeling of desperation began to close in. What if they couldn’t get a boat? What if they didn’t escape? The brief vision of Ben hanging gripped his heart. 

_They’ll have to kill me first._

Ben, meanwhile, was still debating on a course of action.

“Damned fool,” he muttered under his breath. Or rather, _he_ was, because there was no way he would allow his friend to scout the area alone.

Gritting his teeth, Ben stumbled free of his hiding spot, then skidded down over the hill to make his pursuit. As Caleb had warned, the area was slick, and he nearly slipped several times as he attempted to keep up. His boots squelched through mud, and despite his jittering nerves, something about his friend’s potential danger had sobered him up. Caleb had already suffered _far, far too much_ during this war, and Ben’s own failure to remain levelheaded guilted him like a swollen, tender bruise. He couldn’t leave him to the wolves.

Dropping down at Caleb’s side, Ben drew a breath and surveyed the scene. “You didn’t really think I’d let you go alone, did you?” he groused. “I would’ve at least appreciated a warning first.”

Sparing his friend a sidelong glance, Ben’s frown deepened as he returned his attention to the men guarding the boats. There were about fifteen to twenty, give or take, which seemed to swing in their favor.

Even in the dim light, Caleb recognized his own coat. _Oh, for God’s sake!_ Did the man not realize it had been for his own good? What if instead of just a few guards, there had been fifty? And those fifty men would’ve been keen on capturing any rebels they could, since their chances of action had been denied. He rolled his eyes in exasperation and regretted not knocking Tallmadge out.

Letting the subject drop as he was there now, Caleb’s gaze drifted back to the men and boats. One launch had caught his eye. Smaller than the rest, it appeared more like a fishing boat. Could the British have contracted some locals to transport the soldiers? 

“There might be more redcoats on the boats,” Ben muttered under his breath. “Between the two of us, I think we can take them. Perhaps we can divert their attentions elsewhere, and then swoop in from behind?” Glancing at Caleb, Ben managed a tired smile. “Aside from your hatchet, you surely have something that can distract them.”

“Perhaps. Perhaps,” Caleb agreed. Distraction was not a bad strategy. The redcoats were on edge and waiting for some type of action. Already, his hands were raising to reach inside his waistcoat. There were some advantages to belonging to an artillery regiment, even if he hardly mustered with them. Nestled close were a couple of shells. Once lit, they could be thrown and exploded when the fuse burned down. Brewster brought one out, holding it in his palm like an egg. “This might do.”

When the shell was lifted between them, presented almost _casually_ despite the potential for destruction, Ben’s eyes flashed with a hint of hope. “I’ll never call you reckless again,” he swore, though the wry slant to his mouth belied that promise.

Recklessness was in his nature. It is what encouraged Caleb to sign aboard as a whaler at 19 instead of becoming a farmer. It drove him to be unconventional, which is why he and Ben worked so well together. Ben was more reserved and wanted a clear plan, while Caleb was comfortable with improvising, confident he could overcome whatever challenge was thrown at him.

“I’ll remember that,” he agreed with a smile.

Somehow, Caleb’s words struck a chord in Ben. The promise of remembrance implied that there _would_ be a future, a _tomorrow_ that both would be able to experience. He needed to hold on to that hope. If this was going to work, he _needed_ to believe that all would be well.

“The boat we want is about a quarter way up the line,” Caleb said. “See it?”

Following the direction his friend pointed, Ben’s smile faded as he appraised the ship. He nodded. “The small one? Seems like our safest option, I agree…” Eyes cutting in between the boat and the redcoats, he crouched down farther as he weighed their options. “Naturally, you should throw the shell in the opposite direction. We _might_ be able to clear everyone by making a run for it, but it seems wisest to put up an attack first. That way, we can thin the herd closest to the vessel.” He looked to Caleb again. “Are we in agreement?”

Personally, Brewster would have suggested throwing the grenade first and using the ensuing chaos as a cover. “All right,” he agreed. “We’ll take some out first.”

The minutes ticked by like quivering heartbeats, and a softness overcame Ben’s face as he gripped his flintlock. “For what it’s worth, if I die…well…it’ll be nice to do so in good company.”

At this declaration, Caleb looked at him. There was no sign of his usual mischievousness. “This whole plan is to save you, and Abe, and Anna. I’m not lettin’ you die, Tallboy. You’re gonna be stuck with me for a while.”

At that, Ben’s mouth quirked again, bringing a brief lightness to his otherwise despairing eyes. A part of him wanted to make a joke – perhaps even label the comment as a threat – but instead, he offered a soft, “Thank God for that.”

Nudging the other man, he took the shell from Caleb’s hand and nodded toward the boats. “On the count of three.”

_One._

As Ben zeroed in on the best place to throw, his heart pounded strenuously in his chest. Had he felt less detached, he might not have been able to calm his breaths. How ironic, he thought, that his own inability to completely overthrow his shock had somehow _saved_ him.

_Two._

A slight ruckus arose when a couple redcoats started trash-talking each other in a jovial, decidedly friendly manner, but Ben didn’t allow himself to be distracted – _wouldn’t_ allow himself to view these men as _human beings_ with friends and family.

_Three…_

Gritting his teeth, Ben reared back and lobbed with all his might. As a boy, he’d always had a considerably good throwing arm, and he nearly dropped to his knees in thanks when today proved to be no different. The shell made its mark and exploded thereafter, leading to shouts and chaos as the redcoats all turned toward the attack.

“Cover me,” Ben hissed. Leaping from his hiding spot, he skidded down over the embankment and dodged in between several narrow, rapidly thinning trees. Before long, he would be out in the open and susceptible to attack.

Caleb couldn’t help but feel a tug of satisfaction as chaos ensued. _Always_ , was the thought as Ben leapt off through the trees. Their position hadn’t been noticed yet, so they had some time. Already, the brace of pistols was loosed from his belt, and ready in Caleb’s hands as he followed after.

Breaking free of the wooded area, Ben stumbled to a momentary halt whenever a straggling redcoat crossed his path.

“Oi!” the man shouted, fumbling for his saber.

Swearing under his breath – _so much for getting in a few shots before their cover was blown_ – Ben raised his flintlock and fired off a round straight into the other man’s eye socket. Crimson burst forth from the redcoat’s wound, and jerking with a few struggling signs of life, the soldier staggered forward before collapsing into the dirt.

The commotion gathered attention from a few of the nearest men, and frantic, Ben pulled out a paper cartridge before ripping it open with his teeth. While he reloaded, he scanned the area for Caleb to make certain he wasn’t in need of any help of his own.

Out in the open, with a man dead, the British saw the newcomers. A gang of four rushed out to meet them. Sharp tipped points of bayonets glinted in the light. Raising one pistol, Caleb fired, catching one in the throat. **Three**. The hammer on the other pistol clicked forward, the powder in the pan ignited, and the ball began its journey, and ended lodged in the head of another soldier.

**Two.**

Both spent pistols returned to their places on his belt and Caleb grabbed the hatchet. The two hadn’t stopped at the pistol fire, nor checked on their comrades. Onward, they came eager for a piece of the action that had been denied.

And would _remain_ denied. 

Brewster met them, his shorter legs quickly charging towards them to give Ben time to reload. A crack resounded as a Brown Bess stock met the wooden handle of his hatchet. Brewster could see the fear warring with the bloodlust in his opponent’s eyes. A swift kick to the man’s thigh caught him off-guard and he toppled over. Seizing the chance, the hatchet quickly ended his life.

**One.**

This bastard was bigger than the others. No fear shone in his eyes, only the crazed light of one who wants to see how far the bayonet can be sheathed in a body. He and Caleb circled, sizing each other up, looking for a weakness. The giant was not going to be brought down by his hatchet. The last grenade would not help as the man was too close. Caleb was going to need some divine intervention.

Though Brewster was handling the group well enough on his own, the whaler’s prowess wasn’t enough to console Ben as he reloaded his flintlock. Gritting his teeth, he jerked the ramrod up and down inside the barrel, then glanced over his shoulder.

Caleb had bested three of the four men, but the final – a rather large, mountainous type – was circling him with a manic look to his eye. There was no question that this redcoat was out for blood rather than surrender.

A flash of urgency lanced through Ben, sharp and red-hot, and he clicked back the hammer to his flintlock before unsheathing his saber. Despite the threat of more men, he raced toward Caleb over the uneven terrain, the needling sensation in his lungs turning to knifepoints as he pushed himself to maximum capacity. _Don’t you die,_ he prayed, _don’t you die!_

The redcoat lifted his bayonet in preparation to strike, but that was when Ben lunged forward. With a sharp cry, he drove the saber through the man’s back, catching against bone before pushing through with a thick, unpleasant squelch.

The soldier staggered, stunned, and Ben staggered along with him, trembling with adrenaline as another pair of men came rushing their way. Quickly, Ben managed to spin the dying redcoat in front of him just as the one newcomer opened fire. Ben _felt,_ rather than witnessed the musket ball tearing through the man’s throat when a warm, sickening spray of blood volleyed up over his face. Momentarily blinded, he blinked away the red haze and looked to Caleb through the chaos.

“Head to the boat!” he shouted. Yanking his saber free of the soldier’s body, he shoved the man forward and emptied his flintlock into the frantic, reloading redcoat who’d killed his own man.

Caleb had seen the man’s death coming behind him. A devil with a blade, the point of it poked through the man’s chest, and David had slain Goliath just as he’d ducked to pick up the fallen Brown Bess. There hadn’t been time to fire upon the man charging at them, but Ben’s quick thinking had saved him. Brewster ran towards the boat, only needing to bloody the bayonet once. A soldier had guessed the destination and sought to head him off. By the time it had taken the soldier to ready the Bess to fire, Caleb had already dispatched him. 

Not stopping to see the aftermath, Ben sliced through the air in an attempt at freeing gore from his saber, then turned toward the moored boat and pumped his legs in a mad, desperate dash toward their only means of escape. He heard two more fires of musket-shot, and then a sharp sting cut across his right shoulder. Glancing downward, he spotted a frayed hole in Caleb’s oilskin coat. A responding pulse of blood trickled down his arm, thick and chilling, and he gritted his teeth while pressing forward. It was only a graze – he’d survived far worse in battle.

The boat that awaited them was Providence, indeed. Oars sat in the locks and there were a couple bags beneath the boards that would need investigating later. Later, when they were safe. Chucking the musket into the boat, Caleb began pushing it out into the river. Once it was far enough in the water so that it floated (and the oars wouldn’t hit its neighbors), he jumped in and turned to cover Ben’s retreat. 

A shadow moved on shore, intent on the dragoon in the oilskin coat. A shot fired from the shadow’s musket, a spout of fire in the dark. Caleb put him in the musket’s sight and sent a volley of retaliation, downing the man. There wasn’t time to reload now, and once Ben was in, they were going to row like hell. His hands gripped the warm wood, a wave of comfort and familiarity settling on him to quell the desperation that only surfaced when he called out, “Ben, come on!”

Ben sprang along the uneven terrain and gritted his teeth, his injury screaming its protest as he pumped his arms to aid in his frantic sprint.

He was close…

Another volley of musket-shot exploded overhead, and Ben dodged in time to avoid another sharp, stinging wave of artillery fire. Leaping down toward the shoreline, he splashed through the water and clumsily took hold of the edge of the boat. His legs nearly gave out as he moved, though prompted by Caleb’s shouts, Ben managed to vault himself over the edge and onto one of the thwarts, his limbs trembling as he fumbled for a set of oars.

“That could have gone smoother,” he muttered, though there was a dark glimmer of amusement in his eyes. Another shot went off and he flinched. River water skimmed from the wayward musket ball, but otherwise, left their surroundings undisturbed.

“After you,” Ben said, though he started rowing without instruction. He clenched his jaw and grimaced, powering through the nettled, burning sensation along his shoulder. Caleb seemed to be unharmed – a true victory, as far as he was concerned – so he kept his peace as shouts echoed after them from shore. 

One of the men grew brave. Despite the boat being a fair distance out on the water, the redcoat sheathed a dagger between his teeth, and then dove in after them, cutting through the river with vengeful determination. 

It was then that Ben realized he hadn’t fired off his second pistol. Feeling beneath his coat for the flintlock, he halted his rowing and turned to aim at the furiously swimming soldier. He was young…probably not much older than Samuel had been upon his death. For just a moment, Ben faltered, his hand shaking as he attempted to steady his aim.

_It’s not him. Samuel is gone. He’s not, he’s not…_

Squeezing his eyes shut, Ben fired off the round and the soldier gave a sharp, responding cry before thrashing about, then gurgling as he descended in a limp, lifeless heap. The river swallowed him up and Ben exhaled, pocketing his pistol before turning back around again.

Not looking Caleb in the eye, he frowned and reclaimed his oars, swallowing past the dryness in his throat as a shivering swell of relief burned within his chest. They were going to make it. They were. They _were._

There was no one left now to oppose them. They had done it. The plan conceived within minutes after surrender had borne fruit, the fruit of safety and security. 

With every pull on his oars, Caleb took the chance to examine the new tear in Ben’s borrowed coat. Every inch of that oilskin was familiar. The liquid around the tear was too thick, too plentiful to be water.

_The damned fool._

“Are you all right? Did you get hit?”

Was he all right?

_No._

The thought made Ben’s lips curve upwards, almost hysterical as an amalgam of emotions swirled within his chest, each clamoring for dominance. Despair, exultation, anger, relief – he chuckled as a ribbon of awareness lanced through him, demanding in its presence. He might not be emotionally sound, but they were _safe,_ and that safety guaranteed them another chance at freedom. Not just for themselves, but for their friends, families and homes.

“I’m fine,” he assured Caleb. “It’s just a scratch… I endured far worse when I fell out of Old Man Hess’ tree, if you’ll recall.” There had been blood everywhere, and for a boy of just eleven years, it had been utterly terrifying. Ben had convinced himself he was going to die. Naturally, he hadn’t – he’d _lived,_ just as he had now, against all odds.

This time, Ben _did_ allow a laugh, though it was strained as he rowed. A hollowness formed inside his chest, but it only encouraged him to plow ahead with more determination, his vision blurring with unshed tears as he pumped his arms. 

Caught in the current, the boat moved swiftly downstream. The sounds from the battlefield faded, as did the drifting smoke from the guns. High on that ridge their friends, their fellow brothers-in-arms, were suffering the consequences of surrender. And they had run. To save Ben’s life, and Abe and Anna’s, Caleb would wear the mantle of coward or deserter. His love for them was greater than his love for the Cause. War had been an excuse to continue playing the pirate, the rogue, the adventurer, but he cared much less for himself than he did his friends. Did he not already carry the scars of that loyalty? Long cuts in his back and his chest bore witness to this.

“Where are we headed?” Ben managed to ask. He couldn’t lose his wits just yet. Their friends were still in danger of capture or _worse,_ and his stomach did several agonizing flipflops as he catalogued each of their potential fates.

“We’re headed for the Chesapeake,” Caleb said. “We’ll land in Maryland, grab some horses and make our way north. We’re safe enough for the moment, though.” He nodded toward Ben’s wound. “Let’s see it then. I’m not goin’ through all this to have to you bleed out.” His voice was low, soft, like making conversation with a shy horse. Letting the river carry them farther away, Caleb brought in his oars and carefully moved over to Ben’s side.

Despite his friend rising to help, Ben couldn’t lift his eyes. He kept rowing, almost manic in his determination, until Caleb gently took hold of the oars and halted his desperate movements. Ben’s jaw tensed and he tried not to crumple. Not having the strength to argue, he loosened his grip and his hands fell into his lap, useless and trembling. He didn’t like feeling so helpless. There had been many times during the war that he’d felt scared and alone and full of doubt, but _never_ had he felt so utterly powerless – _worthless._

Eyes stinging, Ben’s chin trembled and he exhaled, going limp by way of acquiescence. Caleb peeled back his coat, and with hollow defeat, he glanced down at his injured arm. Blood and lymph oozed from the wound, though at a slow, unalarming pace. What _truly_ alarmed Ben was how little he cared. He didn’t _care_ whether he lived or died, and simultaneously, he loathed himself for being so damn selfish. He should care – he _needed_ to care. Caleb and Anna and Abe were all counting on him.

“Maybe we’re not supposed to,” Ben whispered, his doubts finally being spoken aloud. “M-maybe…maybe we were _supposed_ to lose all along.” A knot formed in his throat, swelling with emotion. “I’d always thought I was drawn to the Cause for a higher purpose…that there _had_ to be a reason for why I felt so compelled to join. There was almost a restless, needful ache inside me.” He pressed a fist over his mouth, attempting to swallow back a scream.

_But you failed. You did everything you could, and you **still failed.**_

The injury itself was not life-threatening, but still needed attending. More gently than one would think possible, Caleb removed the bit of cloth he used as a neck stock, poured some alcohol from his flask onto the wound, and then tightly tied it around Ben’s arm.

Of more concern was Ben’s loss of faith. He had been the driving force of the Ring. The consummate patriot. He’d convinced his childhood friends to face danger and risk everything for the Cause. For Washington.

If God had a higher purpose for Caleb, he was keeping it to Himself. Brewster had joined for the adventure. Whaling and sailing had given him the skills to survive, and getting assigned to Ben for special detail had been an added bonus. The Ring had given him purpose, a mission to see through, no matter the cost. Now it was the courier’s turn to carry the Cause’s torch.

The contact of alcohol against his raw, open wound made Ben flinch, but otherwise, he didn’t emote as Caleb secured the cloth around his arm. It almost felt as though he were disembodied…that he was _observing_ his plight, rather than experiencing it firsthand.

Had he died? _Was this hell?_

“Hey,” Caleb entreated, trying to gain his attention. “We haven’ lost. You think those thousands of men on that hill are goin’ to forget? Goin’ to give up? Our victory has only been delayed. Maybe _this_ is the purpose, Ben. You livin’ to carry on the Cause. To rally those boys to our standard.”

A sickening, panicked sensation took root in his gut, and just as Ben moved to reach for his oars again – something, _anything_ to prove he was still present in the now – Caleb took his face between his hands and _forced_ the eye contact he had been so stubbornly refusing. Jerking in surprise, Ben staggered a moment before drawing a breath. He was right. Caleb was _always_ right. Blinking back tears, Ben bit down so hard on his inner cheek that he tasted blood. 

“I’m…sorry.” Finally, his shoulders slumped and his frustrations poured forth, wetting his cheeks as he clumsily grasped at Caleb’s wrists. _I didn’t try hard enough, I’m sorry, I’m **so** sorry._

Furious – at his weakness, at _himself_ – Ben managed to break away and draw a sleeve across his eyes, his breath coming out in soft, hitching intervals as he struggled to tamp down his emotion. This wasn’t the time to break. This wasn’t the time to _wallow in self-pity._ As much as he wished to argue with Caleb, Ben couldn’t deny that there _had_ to be a reason they were still alive.

“I…can’t take Washington’s place,” he finally stammered. Or rather, he _wouldn’t._ It didn’t feel right – almost like a betrayal, treasonous and painful to his heart. To accept that the Cause needed a new leader stung far worse than the angry, throbbing slice on his shoulder.

Chin dropping toward his chest, Ben sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. “I’m sorry,” he said again. “You’re right that this isn’t our first loss…we’ve suffered countless defeats at the hands of the enemy, so it would be foolish to give up now. Not when our friends and family need protection more than ever.”

Caleb’s hands fell to rest on his knees. And he listened. Ben’s pain, doubt, and fear came through the few uttered words. It filled the tears that he wouldn’t let fall, and displayed on his arm in a streak of wetness. 

Despair and doubt were not unknown to the courier. Both formerly foreign emotions had wormed their way into his mind at the hands of Simcoe, and it had been a hard fight to dispel them. The voice in his head was no longer Simcoe’s, but Mary’s. She had restored his confidence. 

Caleb wasn’t the man he used to be. There were too many scars and nightmares now to return to that. Simcoe hadn’t changed who he was at the core – his bravado, his dogged optimism. His fierce love for his friends.

For Ben. 

“You did everythin’ you could,” he firmly reminded him. “Tallboy, you aren’ divine. You can’ be everywhere at once. The Ring is just a small piece o’ the war. _We_ did everythin’ we could. You don’t ‘ave to be Washington, just be Major Tallmadge. That’ll be enough for us all.”

A darkness bled over Ben’s eyes then, shadowed and white-hot like embers. What would become of Setauket, of the _colonies,_ if he just kept rolling over like the damned coward he was allowing himself to be? Caleb was right. He had to become whatever the Cause needed.

Frustrated, he slammed his fist against his knee and grit his teeth. He had moved on from passive shock to fury, and the rush of energy rocketing through his veins was palpable as he began to shake. The enemy had to pay – they _would_ pay.

“Once we finally reclaim our homes, whomever hangs Washington will be the first to swing,” Ben promised, his voice tight. “I’ll hang them myself.”

Brewster looked up at him, admiration lighting his dark eyes. There was no mirth to be found in his features, but determination had given them a hard edge. “I’ll tie the noose for the bastard.”

Caleb’s words brought a smile of gratitude to Ben’s face. A _true_ smile – one that finally broke through the clouds in his troubled, stormy eyes, and hovered there akin to candlelight at the end of a darkened hallway. Had Caleb been right all along? _Was_ he enough? The idea that had once seemed so impossible, so _unfeasible_ now gave Ben pause, and all because his friend knew exactly how to yank his helpless, floundering mind back to shore – all because Caleb was willing to _show_ him that no matter what, he would be there too.

Now more than ever, Ben found himself grateful to have Caleb at his side. Abe was quick on his feet, and perhaps less trigger happy, but he didn’t have the former’s ability to ground him – to ground _anyone_ when they needed it most.

Lifting a hand, Ben took hold of Caleb’s shoulder and gave him an appreciative jostle. He wanted to say something. Perhaps another _thank you,_ or even words of reassurance, but he knew he didn’t have to. Their friendship was one that didn’t require words.

Instead, Ben reached down and swiped Caleb’s flask, then lifted it in a salute before declaring, “To our victory, to justice, and…” Here he paused, his brow creasing before he hurriedly finished, “And to a swift and painless end for our friend.”

In a way, Ben felt disrespectful for not declaring Washington by name, but a part of him – a small, childish part – genuinely believed that if he just _withheld the words,_ then perhaps they wouldn’t come true.

With a trembling hand, Ben knocked back the flask and took a generous swallow.

_To victory or death._

**Author's Note:**

> Despite it being nerdy (I'm an unabashed nerd, okay?), this whole scene was sampled from an ongoing thread between my writing partner and myself. My ultra talented _(brilliant, incredible, amazing, show stopping, spectacular)_ writing partner wrote for Caleb, and I wrote for Ben. If you have an RP page on Tumblr and would like to write with me, feel free to drop a comment and I'll give you my URL! Hope you all enjoyed!


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